


Kitchen

by akane42me



Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-29
Updated: 2011-06-29
Packaged: 2017-10-20 20:31:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/216820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akane42me/pseuds/akane42me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The kitchen can be a hazard to your health.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kitchen

**Author's Note:**

> Written in January 2007 for a mfuwss beta challenge.

**Kitchen**

  
Napoleon limped in ahead of Illya. "I'm going to take three aspirins and a hot shower.   
Would you rummage around in the kitchen to see what we can make do with for dinner?"

Illya opened Napoleon's front closet, watched Napoleon struggle with his overcoat for a moment, then began to help him ease his arms from the sleeves. "Don't you have anything stronger than aspirin?" 

"I don't want to get all doped up," Napoleon replied. "I'm just a little sore." He pulled away, gingerly finishing the extraction himself. "Illya, thanks, but there's no need to hover like this." 

"Suit yourself." Illya thrust a hanger at Napoleon. "If you get dizzy in the bathroom, please have the courtesy to call me before you slip and crack your head open, not after." 

As Napoleon trudged away, Illya hung his own coat in the closet and came away with blood and grime on his hands. He went to the kitchen and rinsed his hands at the sink. Looking around for a towel and finding none at hand, he flicked the water from his fingers as best he could and let his shirt do the rest. He opened the bottom drawer next to the dishwasher and pulled out a fresh towel. 

Searching for food, Illya first looked in the refrigerator. He should have known better. In their world, perishable items were best left at the market. Anything worth eating would have to be defrosted or re-hydrated. He poked through the scant fare in the freezer and came out with a slim package wrapped in heavy white butcher paper, labeled 'Ital Sausage Links' in thick, black letters. His nose crinkled at the permanent marker's chemical smell, still potent even when frozen. After putting the packet on the counter, he turned to the stovetop, where the tea kettle rested. He filled it and put it on to boil, then opened the cupboard above the range hood to get the tea. It was the worst possible place to store tea, and he harangued Napoleon about it mercilessly, to no avail. Napoleon's invariable reply was, "I hate kitchens. Leave it where it is so I can find it." 

After he extracted two tea bags, he moved the box of tea, as tradition dictated. He put the box in the right-side cupboard, away from the heat and humidity. He smiled, knowing that Napoleon would find it and move it back again, just to get his goat. Why was it one's goat? Why not one's chicken, or - what was this? Wedged between the wall of the cupboard and the boxes of spare clips and bullets was a large book. The title, "The Joy of Cooking" was printed in dark letters on the shiny white spine. Illya pulled the cookbook out in disbelief. When he opened the book, the pristine dust jacket buckled stiffly and the binding cracked. Never used. No surprise there. However, there was quite a surprise to be found on the flyleaf. 

 _"To Napoleon, who shall never be domesticated,"_ it read.  _"Your filet mignon was a tragedy, darling, but I won't hold it against you."_ It was signed, "Angelique." 

Angelique? What the - ? He shook his head wearily. It was simply not worth pursuing.   
Waiting for the kettle to boil, he sat down at the table with the book. It felt good to sit down. He was tired. He looked for information on how to prepare the sausage. Perhaps here, in the chapter entitled 'The Foods We Heat'. The sausage certainly must be heated. The trivia of the kitchen drew him in.   
 _  
"A most important discovery to make in electric ranges is whether your surface heating units - one or several - are thermostatically controlled to level off disconcertingly when you most need sustained heat for a saute."  
_  
Pausing for a moment, he thought about the coil marks burned into Hal Donovan's face.

He turned a page.  
 _"A man once summed up his wife's life with the epitaph, 'She died of things.' It might have happened to any of us. We are constantly encouraged to buy the latest gadget that will absolutely and positively make kitchen life sublime. So think hard before you buy so much as an extra skewer. Nonrusting well-designed hand tools save your towels and your temper."_

He thought about the ice pick he'd thrown at Lamotte. In the kitchen at Mama Lin's Peking House, Lamotte, a Thrush underling, unreasonably had tried to kill him one night. The humble ice pick had handled as well as an expensive, hand-crafted throwing knife. He was surprised at how accurately it sailed from his underhanded thrust. Lamotte was surprised at how accurately it drove into his chest, right before he died. 

Turning the page, he read on:  
 _"There is a certain pace in food preparation that an experienced cook learns to accept. This doesn't mean she scorns short cuts, but she comes to know when she has to take the long way 'round to get proper results. She senses, in short, not only the demands of her equipment but the reactions of her ingredients."_

Last summer, on a ranch in the hills outside of Taos, they had hung him in a cold, dark cellar like a side of beef. His informant, Madride, was dead. The daughter was missing. Madride's ex-wife, a Thrush executive, scorned short cuts. "This one is tough. We mustn't rush, or we'll ruin him. Be patient, and go slowly. Eventually, he will soften up. Mr. Kuryakin, please, where is my little girl?" 

 _"Watch that your hands or the cloths you are using are not damp in touching or wiping electrical equipment.  
Have polarized attachments put on your electrical appliances to avoid shock.  
Should you receive extensive or painful burns, call a doctor, lie down until skilled help comes and keep quiet and warm to avoid subsequent shock."_

Involuntarily, he thought about what had happened in the Taos cellar. After the first round with the electrical equipment, they dropped him down to rest, to remind him of how good life could get. He lay on the rough floor, trying to keep quiet and warm. By the end of the second round, he could no longer suppress the moans of pain. One guard laughed at Illya's cries and the other shouted above the noise, ordering Illya to shut up and start talking, or he'd give him something to whine about. Subsequent shocks could not be avoided.

Skilled help came a day later when Napoleon arrived. It was an experience Illya would never forget. Contrary to the adage, the memory of the extensive and painful burns did not fade with time. 

Enough of this, he thought. He thumped the cookbook shut and closed his eyes for a moment. Then he opened the Italian sausage links. Tearing the tape open and unwrapping the heavy waxed paper, he nearly cried out at the sight of the shriveled things sealed in plastic wrap, nestled among the sausages. There were two of them, each with ragged blood-browned bits of flesh at one end and a yellowed fingernail at the other end. Well-manicured. He recognized the diamond pinky ring on the smaller finger. Vincent Dewane. This is where his fingers ended up? Did Napoleon - ? He stood there, stunned. Shocked, he thought, this is not good, and pondered what to do. His fingers were suddenly clumsy, and they trembled as he hastily gathered the sausages and fingers and began to fold the paper over them.

"I see you found my little secret." 

Napoleon's quiet voice startled him and he whirled around in surprise. He'd been so intent on looking at the severed fingers, he hadn't noticed his partner come up behind him. Now Napoleon waited in front of him, silent and watchful. He wore a little smile, but behind the smile was something hard, which unaccountably worried Illya. He pushed past Napoleon to the polished wooden table, and catching the back of a Windsor chair, he pulled it out and sat down hard. Napoleon followed him and sat facing him, his smile gone. 

"You mustn't tell," he said softly to Illya.

"Or you'll have to kill me?" Illya spoke lightly, trying the old joke to warm the chill between the two men, but the words sounded flat and forced. He thought about what to do. I'm facing the door, Illya realized, and he put his right hand in his lap. He slowly slid his hand forward and up, feeling for the pistol Napoleon kept hidden under the table at the place where he sat. 

A shrill alarm began to sound, high pitched and insistent. Napoleon stopped moving. 

"Illya," Napoleon said. 

Illya's arm froze. He tried to speak again, but could not. He needed to stand, but his legs were paralyzed. The alarm continued. It hurt his ears. 

Napoleon repeated his name and gave him an order. 'Illya. Wake up." 

He did, instantly. Napoleon was still there, seated across from him, and now he stood and went to the stove and turned off the burner under the teakettle. The whistle died slowly as Napoleon poured water for tea and returned to the table. He said to Illya, "You found it," pointing. 

Illya still could not speak. He stuttered, "I - what - ". What are Vincent Dewane's fingers doing in your freezer? His voice died, as he realized he did not want to know the answer to the question. He looked dumbly at Napoleon, whose expression was inexplicably turning to embarrassment. 

"You found my secret," Napoleon repeated, pointing to the cookbook lying on the table. 

Illya looked stupidly at it. Where was the package of sausage links? He turned around in alarm, searching. It lay on the counter, still wrapped, and unopened. Illya found his voice at last, and it burst forth in an astonished Russian oath. He jumped up and lurched to the counter, tripping over a leg of his chair in his haste. He snatched the white package and tore it open to reveal four of Manny's finest Italian links, and nothing else. He whirled around to face Napoleon. 

Napoleon laughed at the confused look on Illya's face and went to his friend's side. 

"Illya, what are you doing? Are you still asleep? Sit down. Here's your tea." 

They returned to the table. Napoleon picked up the cookbook and put it back in the cupboard. 

"You mustn't tell anyone about this. Mr. Waverly will kill me himself if he finds out I invited Angelique here. Promise?"

"I won't. I will. I -" Illya stopped, and began again. "Napoleon, the sausage -" 

"Forget about it," said Napoleon. "Let's order out. You know how I hate kitchens."

  
The End


End file.
